


Bottom of the Ocean

by silbecoo



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, mostly just frank
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-05 21:15:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13396380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silbecoo/pseuds/silbecoo
Summary: Frank has no one left to punish but himself.





	Bottom of the Ocean

The thunk of the hammer against the crumbling concrete is loud, but not loud enough to drown out the screams that echo in his ears. They’re from his dreams, open mouthed terror coming from the small faces of his children, his wife’s blood curdling howls of devastation. Sometimes in the dreams Maria survives, holding the limp bodies of their children, looking up at him with hate, with blame. It’s all manufactured misery. I reality their deaths were too quick for screams, all three of them gone before they could even gasp in surprise, his hands slick with their blood, cradling them, praying breath back into their cold bodies. Useless prayers. **  
**

His hands are slick with blood again, this time it’s his own. Blisters form and bust again and again, day after day, his palms raw and burning every night. The smell of antiseptic burning in his nostrils as he splashes it across the bloody mess. Eventually there will be calluses, thick hard flesh devoid of feeling. There had been a callus forming around his heart too. A new layer formed with every step he took away from his family and toward the blackness, with every gunshot aimed between the eyes of a sniveling asshole. It helped when the murdering pieces of shit begged for their lives, reminded Frank that he was taking something they wanted desperately to keep. There was no pain when he was a specter of death stalking the demons that walk the earth.

But now the only demons left are the ones that live in his bones, no one to hunt, nothing left to take. His heart half hardened, he twists in the wind without a purpose. He only has this, swinging the hammer, the silence in the air between the boom of steel against concrete. He keeps going when everyone leaves, when the sun drops down over the horizon and the air chills against his sweaty skin. He can’t stop, not until his muscles quiver with exhaustion, not until his treacherous brain is too defeated to replay its favorite scene. Only then can he drop the bloody handle and walk back to his tiny apartment.

He just looks at the beige walls and the pillow without a pillowcase and sees the life he might have lived if he hadn’t joined the marines, hadn’t met Maria. It’s a pathetic lonely life, a man living day to day with no thought of the future, no care for it. Sometimes he wonders if that other life ever existed, the one with soft blue walls and creamy creamy egyptian cotton sheets. It feels like a cruel joke that he can remember it at all.

Curtis tries to help him, he really does. The only things in Frank’s shoebox living quarters with any spark of personality, any indication of individuality, are the books on the nightstand. Well intended recommendations, escapes from the chaos in his mind.

_Moby Dick? What is this, Curt, tenth grade english?_

_See the world from another perspective, Frank. Maybe it’ll hurt less._

It never hurts less, but sometimes when he reads, it does transport him. Suddenly he’s Ahab, a man mad with a single minded obsession, not that much of a stretch really. Curt isn’t exactly subtle, trying to teach him some lesson about life. The captain’s pursuit of the whale makes Frank itch, his fingers twitching in annoyance as he turns the pages. He can feel the salt of the sea on his skin, can taste it in the air. The burning on his palms is from pulling ropes taught, hoisting masts, unfurling sails. He reads until his eyes drop shut, and the dreams descend upon him differently. They’re bad and bloody as always, but the cast of characters changes, and he doesn’t wake up screaming. It’s quiet at the bottom of the sea with the smug white whale.

The story’s message isn’t lost on Frank. Ahab’s mission of revenge only ends in his own demise. Frank wishes the book meant a damn thing to him, other than a temporary escape from the daily searing pain of existence.

Sometimes when he reads, it’s like his brain doesn’t know what to do with the words. The letters are a black and white soup of nonsense. He reads the same exact paragraphs over and over again until his head is pounding with the effort of focusing on the page. He’s distracted by things he shouldn’t be thinking about, things he shouldn’t be allowed to feel. The images behind his eyes don’t match what’s on the paper. It’s her smile, soft, sweet, framed by softly falling locks of blonde hair. His name on her lips, bright blue eyes sparkling with unshed tears, sympathy, understanding. She doesn’t seem to hate him in those moments, and maybe he isn’t dead to her anymore. On those nights he gives up on escape, flicks off the light and descends into tumultuous sleep. He seeks the punishment of the dreams because he knows he deserves it, more than he would ever deserve something as soft and sweet as the possibility of a second life.

Sunlight makes the edges of Maria’s hair glow like a halo, her eyes sparkle. She kisses him so softly it feels like she’s painting him with the same light she’s bathed in, her eyelashes sweeping across his skin where she leans close. And he can hear the kids, giggling, running up and down the stairs. His heart isn’t hard anymore, it’s soft and residing somewhere outside of his body, oh so crushable. There’s a gaping hole in his chest where it’s been carved out, and he’s slowly bleeding to death in the face of all this love. And still she smiles, reaching for him, both arms extended.

It’s impossible to explain what he feels to someone who hasn’t felt this heartbreak. He’s in physical pain when he wakes up from these dreams. It’s hard to breathe. On more than one occasion he instinctively reaches down to pull the knife from his sternum only to be met with old scars and a racing heartbeat. 

He goes back to the construction site at dawn, ready to focus on the swing of the hammer, the smell of dust, the pain in his hands. He doesn’t know why he’s alive, or why it feels like he’s waiting for something, someone. Curtis keeps telling him there’s something beyond all this and Frank doesn’t believe him, but it’s hurting no one to play along, so that’s what he does. 

Until he doesn’t.

Donny’s pleas echo through the empty building, and Frank watches silently as the dumb kid is kicked around. A disagreement of some kind, not really something Frank should get involved in. The kid will have to take his lumps. Bruised ribs and a black eye might be enough to dissuade him from getting further involved with those useless dipshits.

But there’s something in the air, a violence that’s sharper than Frank’s felt in a long time. His adrenaline spikes, and he wants it, needs it. His resolve hardens when the group makes their way over to the cement mixers. No choice now, he supposes. His hands twist around the handle of his hammer. It’s satisfying, the way their skulls crack under the heavy tool. With every thump the chaos inside of his skull get quieter, the callus around his heart thicker.

He lets the white whale pull him under.

**Author's Note:**

> I had to stop watching the punisher to write this before going on. I feel so many things about Frank, it's almost overwhelming. Let me know what you think. (I haven't finished TPS yet, two episodes left).


End file.
